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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865868">Fools</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookely14/pseuds/brookely14'>brookely14</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian &amp; Guirao</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Denial of Feelings, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Rated M for some not great imagery, Salieri worships Mozart but not in the way you think, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:35:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865868</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookely14/pseuds/brookely14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want you and Rosenberg to give me a report on Mozart’s progress with my opera,” the King had said offhandedly, and Salieri had been frozen in a panic. He could have gone the rest of his life without having to speak with the prodigy, the sheer brilliance of their soul was sure to strike him dead in an instant, and before he could blink he and Rosenberg were in a carriage. His hands hadn’t started shaking until the practice building had loomed up in front of them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Antonio Salieri &amp; Count Rosenberg, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart/Antonio Salieri, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart/Antonio Salieri (one sided)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fools</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They were there, beaming, even as Salieri strode in closely followed by a sour-face Rosenberg, and he felt sick. “Herr Mozart,” he said, and god their name itself was a beautiful composition, the sound traveling through him with a blessing from the angel Raphael himself. He wasn’t worthy of breathing the same air as the Austrian. “We have come to observe the rehearsal of your opera.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t the first time the Italian had crossed paths with the young composer, having haunted the edges of many of His Majesty’s court parties, but it was the first time he had dared speak their name aloud, or even exchanged words with them. He had spent so long watching, with unworthy eyes and a heart wounded from jealousy or something else he didn’t know, that the idea of a conversation had nearly caused him to flee completely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah! Places everyone, we are to have our first audience!” Salieri greedily watched as they spun first towards their musicians and librettist, clapping their lithe-looking hands excitedly, then they turned back to face the wing Rosenberg had retreated into. The composer’s every movement emanated the energy and grace of a dancer, bouncing on the balls of their feet even as they made their way across the stage to the conducting podium. “You must be Herr Rosenberg and Maestro Salieri!” Mozart said eagerly, and the Italian had to close his eyes and compose himself. Their voice was airy, angelic in melody and pitch and tone, and Salieri feared the purity of it would leave visible burns across his skin. Mozart was a brilliant light upon Earth, truly one of God’s children, vibrating with a perfection no one else could reach; Salieri was but an earthworm so low, so vile and disgusting that it physically pained him to be this close to something so beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Rosenberg replied in his usual clipped tones, and it gave Salieri enough of a reprieve to gather his strength and open his eyes again. “The King has sent us to judge your progress.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Austrian barely blinked, leaping up onto his conducting platform with the lightness of a deer. “I believe His Majesty will be more than pleased! Please, sit and let us all serenade you in his name.” Despite the invitation, both Salieri and Rosenberg stayed standing in their original positions, and Mozart shrugged dismissively before raising his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Salieri couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man as the music started, watching with bated breath as the notes, each more sublime than the next, flowed throughout the room in a heavenly cacophony of strings and horns, and he swore there was a halo of light encircling Mozart’s spiked hair. There was nothing he could ever do to match the magnificence that was being played before him, the mountain too steep for anyone but an angel to come close to reaching. He lost himself in the way their baton swirled, how the light in their eyes turned into a feverous mania the longer he watched, and it was as if each glorious rise and fall drove a wedge further between his ribs, widening the growing hole in his chest with a bitter pain that made him gasp. Then, just as sweetly as it had started, the piece ended with a trumpeted flourish, and Salieri nearly cried from the emptiness of it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This had to be how those brought back from the dead felt, like their glimpse into absolution lasted as long as a butterfly’s kiss before it was wrenched away with all the cruelty in the world. Salieri was afraid he would go mad with want after this first succulent taste of ambrosia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mozart turned back to face him, chest heaving from energy and exertion all at once, a shimmer of glitter along their cheekbones catching the overhead lights, and the Italian was sure to be damned to an eternity of hellfires because he dared look at something so precious to God. “Well? What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Off in the wings, easily forgotten by Salieri, Rosenberg struck the ground with his walking staff. He knew without looking that the man’s face was twisted in annoyance. “It has too many notes, it is too busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that Mozart laughed, stepping down from his rightful, raised position. “That is fair enough, Herr Rosenberg, it may be my most intricate work yet.” Then they pivoted on the edge of the stage, turning their gaze back to Salieri, and the composer found himself frozen, like a raccoon when confronted with candlelight. “And you, Maestro.” There was something almost playful in their voice, in their eyes, and it caught him off-guard even further. “From one composer to another. What did you think of my work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Divine, he wanted to shout. Perfection, breathtaking, the most beautiful and elegant piece the world had ever heard. “It was not terrible,” he said instead, and inside his gut the beast of guilt twisted at his lie of mediocrity. The moment the words left his mouth Salieri wanted to snatch them back and swallow them down again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we must all work harder to make sure that His Majesty will truly be impressed when we are finished.” Mozart nodded sagely, then pushed his hands into the pockets on his coat, conducting baton poking out of one side. Salieri was sad to see them go. “Please, send him my good wishes when you both return to the castle later today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hurt. The space between his ribs ached with the obvious dismissal, but Salieri knew he was nothing but a fool for daring to think God would allow the Italian near one of his prized creations. No amount of desperate prayers, even in the sacred hours just before dawn, could free a beast from its sins. “We will,” he whispered, voice suddenly hoarse, but there was no way the sound made it to the Austrian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good day, Maestro,” he heard Rosenberg say in reply, and his feet followed them out of the practice building. Salieri feared the pain of leaving behind Mozart, an angel among men and a light upon the world, would bring him to tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once they were outside in the open air Rosenberg kept talking, as if the floodgates had opened now that they were alone, and the Italian only half-listened for fear of his emotions devouring him completely. He wished he had never met Mozart, hadn’t known and lost so much in the very same moment without the other even realizing what had happened. “Only a fool would fall for his stupid ‘charm’,” Rosenberg spat, and Salieri had to close his eyes for fear that they would see that title branded across his irises. He had fallen from God’s graces many, many years ago, the very day Mozart had been born and begun to make music, yet he wouldn’t allow anyone else to see how much deeper of a hole he had dug for himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he and Rosenberg parted ways at their hotel rooms for the night, Salieri was partly relieved - now he was properly alone, free to mourn himself and his idiocy from earlier, when he lied to an angel of the Lord. Free to look over some of Mozart’s unreleased work, borrowed from their studio the day before, when they were again rehearsing for their opera. He poured himself some bourbon, brought from his estate and a Christmas gift from His Majesty many years ago, and delicately held the glass between his fingers as he began to read. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning Salieri woke in the chair on the side of his room, the glass from the night before laying on the ground near his feet and presumably empty. With each movement his body ached more, grimacing as two parts of his spine cracked loudly, one right after the other. His eyes felt puffy and sore, and each blink took more energy than it should have until he noticed the pages of sheet music, neatly written on by Mozart’s own hand, were now violently torn and strewn around the armchair he slept in. He numbly slipped from the cushion to his knees and gathered them up into his shaking palms, noticing the carefully inked notes had turned into misshapen, water-logged blotches, barely recognizable on the remnants of a music staff. And Salieri, ever the fool, wondered why God would be so cruel, letting a monster destroy such a thing of beauty. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! This was highly inspired by an acapella cover of Troye Sivan's song "Fools", performed by The Nor'easters. I listened to it on loop pretty exclusively while writing this. If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a kudo or a comment!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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